Published in the January 5-11, 2026 online issue of Poetry Superhighway
Next Time Lie
What to say when the doctor tells me
he can’t help with my knee pain
because
I’ve told him I drink?
My dad was rich and sane and drank.
My mom was poor and crazy and drank.
My first husband was a functioning alcoholic,
but if you tell him that to his face, he’ll reply,
“Are you fucking kidding me? You’re wayward
and you’re bipolar!”
At least that’s what it sounds like to me.
My second husband was a barely functioning alcoholic,
but a sweetheart.
One time I saw him standing at a street light,
waiting for the signal to change.
He was so skinny.
With his unruly bush of long dirty brown hair,
escaping from the same-colored beanie he wore,
and trying so hard to stay upright,
I felt bad for this man who looked like a scarecrow,
eventually recognizing him as my own.
Yes, I drink sometimes, but my knees are killing me.
